The Butterfly Effect
by Ibbonray
Summary: For the first time, your idiocy isn't justifiable. (Skye/Jeffrey, of a sort.)


I'm defying the laws of paragraph format and parenthesis use with this one. Also, I write with much passive voice. Oh well. Written for Spark Writer and Jane Penderwick, the sources of my inspiration.  
(I tried to replicate Skye, but I'm no Jeanne Birdsall. Likewise, Jeffrey has morphed into something corrupt.)

Enjoy, I suppose.

* * *

_If I could fall into the sky  
__Do you think time would pass me by?  
__\- A Thousand Miles_

* * *

You watch as the world flies by.

You watch as Iantha purchases hair dye to mask gray roots, as Daddy picks up a Latin dictionary for the first time in years because he's forgotton a phrase, as Ben wins a contest for his exceptional painting abilities. You're there for Tommy's proposal to Rosalind, catch Jane with dozens upon dozens of boys, and discover Batty kissing a girl she'd claimed was nothing more than a friend. You witness Hound being hit by a car. You're present on that fateful day when Aunt Claire announces she has cancer. You lay a flower on Elizabeth Penderwick's grave to commemorate fifteen years of decay. And sometimes you wonder when the black hole sucked you up like Tommy would suck up the remnants of an extra-large milkshake.

You're twenty-four now, and you live alone in an apartment with sky-blue walls. It's all right, really, but Rosalind called yesterday and told you that the family is starting to worry about your seclusion. ("Skye, haven't you seen Jeffrey lately?")  
As a matter of fact, you haven't seen Jeffrey Tifton since he graduated from Juilliard. Since he recommended that you paint your apartment sky-blue. Since he announced that he'd acquired a fiancé.

It doesn't matter. Not really.

("Do you ever wonder if we'll get married?")

It's never occurred to you why people change. Maybe that's why Jeffrey failed to invite you to his wedding. Maybe he isn't the same boy you collided with inside the hedge- maybe he has changed. Has he thrown away the camouflage hat you gave him for his eleventh birthday? Has he cut down the rope ladder Cagney offered to configure for you and Jane, back when your worst fear was leaving Jeffrey alone to face the wrath of his mother? Maybe he's decided he hates gingerbread and chocolate crème pie. How are you to know? It's been three years.

Or maybe he hasn't changed at all and he spends his days spouting sonatas and cooking stuffed green peppers for his shallow, affluent, pretentious excuse for a wife.

Meanwhile, you engage in the fascinating world of astrophysics, carting your telescope to the country and dragging it into open fields while cursing under your breath about hundreds of lost arm-wrestling matches. (Jeffrey beat you every time. Maybe if you weren't so enamored with his freckles, you would have stepped up your game and took up weight-lifting.)  
Anyway, owning a telescope isn't necessary for a career in astrophysics. Technology is advanced enough these days that one can purchase a certain type of camera and easily view the night sky through one's computer screen. On the other hand, you love your telescope dearly. The device reminds you of the faraway adventures of your teenage years- stealing Iantha's telescope and towing it to secluded clearings using Batty's wagon; spotting Venus and showing it to a wide-eyed Jeffrey. You remember how he'd squeeze your hand, and then how you would unwrap his fingers from yours ("Let's move the telescope, we'll see Venus better from over there") while thinking your excuses were brilliant.

You kept the emotions to yourself. You were an idiot- still are- but you believe your idiocy was [is] all very justifiable, considering you weren't [aren't] Jane.  
("Sometimes I want to take a marker to the stars and play connect the dots" _and I'd do the same with your freckles._)  
(So maybe it's a good thing you aren't Jane.)

These days, however, your past is catching up to you. Your career has expanded your range of thought, and you've begun to theorize the possibility of a supermassive black hole absorbing the entire universe as you know it. Or perhaps this entire universe resides inside an enormous black hole, and the number of highly gravitational areas expand into the far reaches of infinity. ("Anything is feasible, Iantha, and I think it's going to drive me insane.")  
You used to think that if the entire world is a prison of light, then everyone you love could be entrapped in your world, always rebounding off the walls of this black hole and straight back in your direction, no matter how much you hurt them. But then, you let Jeffrey escape.

("Leave me alone, Skye.")("Go away.")  
So you did.

* * *

("I sometimes sort of miss you. Sometimes.")

Turns out that the world hasn't just pulled ahead- it's left you in the dust. Jane calls in the middle of February, at the closure of her enlightening voyage to Paris, France, and announces that her life has recently changed dramatically. [For the better, for the worse?] Euphoria riddles her tone, anyhow. She's published a rewritten and thoroughly edited version of "Sabrina Starr Rescues an Archaeologist," but that isn't the extent of her good fortune. It's become a _New York Times _bestseller, and Europe has given her a profusion of ideas for a novel series, and oh, could you believe she's met the man of her dreams? The phone call is accompanied by much rolling of the eyes (on your part), but once again, a dose of melancholy follows the echo of an empty line.

You wonder if Jane remembers that Aunt Claire died last month. You wonder if she cries every time her head touches the pillow, like you do. Every. Single. Night.  
("Don't cry, please don't cry.")  
("Don't apologize. I know your relations won't consider me an honorary member of the family any longer.")  
("Don't be stupid, Turron. Once a Penderwick, always a Penderwick.")

Jane isn't the only one whose struggles haven't effected her, as of late. Rosalind calls. She's thrilled with the prospect of opening a day care. Iantha calls. She's in the process of compiling all the astrophysics data she's collected over the years. Soon enough, Batty is on the phone, gushing over the puppy entrusted to her by a besotted girlfriend.

Your heart tightens at the description of the dog. "Will he vomit on my shoes?" You ask, interrupting her rant.

"Of course not!" Batty replies, sounding appalled.  
(And you hate him already.)

* * *

Jane always told you that when a butterfly flutters its wings on one side of the world, a hurricane will emerge on the other.

You never had reason to believe her, of course. Jane has always been caught up in her metaphorical fantasies, so how were you to know that the "sensitive dependence on initial conditions" was proven half a century ago by a certain Edward Lorenz? But now that you think about it, Jane was right. This revelation is induced by another phone call (your communication device has become your major source of both solace and pain), and this time it is Ben at the receiver, making small talk and telling stories of his high school experience. Once again, you think about change. Ben has changed. He no longer performs soliloquies about the importance of ducks, anyhow.

Instead, he delivers news. The news creates a stellar collision; black hole meets neutron star, and a gamma ray burst occurs, creating an explosion that destroys every façade you've ever built to reduce the size of the black hole that originally absorbed you. ("This weekend," says Ben, "We're planning on visiting Jeffrey and his baby.")

You've never wanted to slit your wrists before.  
Before now.  
Now, you wish your mental scars could be reflected on your skin, because the expanse stretched over your wrists remains unblemished, much to your dissatisfaction. It is too barren. Too plain. _Too perfect._

("Skye, remember the night we made wishes on the bonfire?" _Of course, Jeffrey. __I should have wished for you._)

The stellar collision has been long overdue. Needless to say, you've never once entered the kitchenette, and you aren't about to change that now (even in search of a knife). Instead, you swipe a set of keys from the table by the door, dash out of the apartment complex, and dive into your car, much like you did on the day that survives at the bottom of a pile of buried memories. Except this time, you aren't crashing into any green-eyed, freckle-faced boys. This time, you're on your way to gaze upon his offspring. (And perhaps Jeffrey himself, if you're being completely honest with yourself.)

("Skye... no one is going to blow up!")  
Gamma-ray bursts are said to be the brightest electromagnetic events known to occur in the universe. After the stellar collision, a sort of "afterglow" occurs, in which bursts of light emit from the wreckage at longer wavelengths. Your only hope resides in the afterglow, and you vow to protect it, your hands clutching the steering wheel tightly as you drive towards a realm of uncertainty. The collision is your fault. Somewhere along the line, you allowed the butterfly to spread its wings, and now you've let yourself become a hurricane. ("If a butterfly flutters its-")("I know, Jane!")

But did you really know? Or were you fooling yourself into believing that you were the center of the universe? Because you might be an area of compact matter, but that doesn't mean you're omniscient.

Before you know it, your knuckles are hitting wood, and you're observing how the white paint that coats the door is chipped. It's all happening so quickly, but you're an eleven-year-old girl throwing yourself head-first into a hedge again; your actions fearless, your nature is free. The door opens. The first thing you hear is music- you almost topple over, for his playing is as electromagnetic as a gamma ray- and the first thing you see are her physical traits: sunshine-blonde hair and sky-blue eyes. Is it really a coincidence that the two of you look similar? Hope becomes a butterfly. You kill it before it manages to flap its wings.

"Can I help you?"

("I'm here to"  
_apologize _"see Jeffrey"  
_and take everything back _"and meet his child"  
_and then pummel Jeffrey's pretentious wife _"as well as introduce myself to his wife, whom I presume you are?")

You may be a complete stranger, but she invites you in anyway; behaving as hospitable as any close friend would be. [So maybe she isn't pretentious.] You tell her your name is Skye. She tells you her name is Gia. You explain that you've known Jeffrey for quite a while, and if Gia questions your words, then she does not show it. The music, reverberating through the house, hits a crescendo as Jeffrey's wife leads you down organized hallways, finally stopping at an open door. Gia crosses the threshold. You follow suit.  
And in spite of your progression amounting to a single step, it is enough for the hurricane to sweep you off your feet.

The afterglow brightens, and there he is, illuminated by the afternoon rays of light unfiltered by a curtainless window. His hands drift over ivory and charcoal keys, his fingers long and nimble. His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, his eyes absorbing the music like black holes, despite being green as jade. His hair has lengthened slightly, settling a bit past mid-forehead, and its hue has become almost golden from prolonged exposure to sunlight. His freckles remind you of stars, and you long to connect the dots, tracing lines across his nose.  
_For the first time, your idiocy isn't justifiable._

(Don't be silly, Skye. It's Jeffrey. It's just Jeffrey.)

The chords dwindle, and die. Gia wears a curious expression as she observes your widened eyes. Jeffrey, in turn, swivels around in his chair. (You've always acknowledged that your bravery defines you, so its absence leaves you empty.) Instead of facing your fears, you duck your head, directing your gaze toward a piece of furniture efficiently placed against a cerulean wall. It's a crib, similar to something found in Mrs. Tifton-Dupree's attic. You drift toward the crib against your will, and of course the miniature bed is occupied; Ben was never a liar. There it is, nestled underneath a pile of blankets, its eyelids shut tight against fortified gusts of wind. That represents another thing Jane used to say: "Ignorance is bliss."

Suddenly, you're Hound; dear, old, buried-six-feet-under-the-ground Hound; and you've eaten the map all over again. ("It isn't as bad as the time-")("What about the time when-")  
("It's Batty's fault.") You've never liked children, anyhow.

* * *

"Five years," you say hollowly. His inquiries are unnecessary, because he knows very well what you mean. Five years of distance. Five years of silence. Five years of depression. Five years of torture. Five years of cowardice, because even men who play the gallant hero have their hamartias. (You haven't forgotten the bull incident, but you've already repaid him with two hours' worth of prime numbers.)

"You wouldn't understand," Jeffrey says, trying for an excuse.

"Wouldn't I?" Your head raises in disbelief. "You ran away, Jeffrey. You ran away and you sent me no invitations to your concerts, or to your parties, or to your wedding, you consorted with my relations in my absence, and then you up and had a child without any word in my general direction. It's been five years, and you have the nerve to say that _I don't understand? _Jeffrey, it's plausible that I'm narrow-minded and maybe you're right- maybe I am incapable of understanding- but you should have said you hated camouflage and rope ladders and gingerbread and Venus and telescopes before you left me behind, because I wouldn't have cared!" The thing in the crib lets out a wail, but you are too immersed in your explosion to consider stopping now. "My life is a joke, Jeffrey. The stars are my only friends, my walls are sky-blue, and my dreams are still plagued with Hound's death... not to mention Aunt Claire's gone and you're as good as gone whilst Jane's frolicking around Paris with her chocolate croissants and doting French husband, having the time of her life! Jeffrey, I'm a black hole. There's been a stellar collision, and it's worse than the initial supernova. Do you know that I thought about killing myself this morning, but I'm too stubborn to succumb to such temptation? Damn it! I'm pathetic, Jeffrey- asking for help when it's unnecessary. I just... I just want it to be the way it used to be."

("Two-on-one slaughter?")

Your voice cracks as you utter the last syllable of your lengthy monologue, but Jeffrey doesn't notice because he's too busy swallowing your words. It is far from your first kiss, but it is the only kiss that matters. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, and you can't help but think a nuclear bomb must be dropping on the other side of the world. His lips are enticingly warm; his touch the touch of a main sequence star. But you are a black hole, prone to practicing accretion. If a main sequence star comes too close, you end up tearing it apart.  
So you push him away. Your gaze is steely, your inner strength fortified once more. ("Coward.")("I'm not a coward.")

_That's sad, don't you_ _think?  
_"Skye-"  
_I hope I never get divorced._

"You have a wife," you pronounce sharply.

"But I love you, Skye- don't you love me?"

__You can't even get married for years and years._  
Why worry about getting divorced?_

"Of course," you say, "But I love you enough that I wouldn't want to diminish you to subatomic particles." (And that's that.)

* * *

It's been a decade since you refused to let him divorce his wife to your benefit. Sometimes, you wonder what inspired your bravery. Was it remembering the tragedy that befell his parents? Reminiscing moonlit conversations amongst a herd of moose? Discovering that Gia was neither pretentious, nor shallow? Or perhaps you gazed upon the infant in the crib and decided the child should grow up in a loving family with both the biological mother and father present. Anyhow, your decisions that day have not improved your outlook on life, nor have they increased your happiness. You still drown in the misery of empty phone lines. You still regret letting the butterfly flutter its wings. But somewhere, somebody else proceeds with a smile, and that gives you enough satisfaction to continue.

("I promise.")  
The reason you're going through the motions these days, however, isn't simply because of your charitable nature. You're human; you are affected by greed. The reason you live is because Jeffrey asked you to wait for him, and you consented to spare your hope for another day. Eventually, Gia will make her leave (in some way or another), so divorce won't be necessary, and you can finally find happiness in the remainder of your limited days. You can embrace the butterflies without worrying about diminishing them to dust, or creating a hurricane for someone else to handle.  
You have reason to trust him, anyway. When hasn't he kept his word? Besides, he gave you Batty's butterfly wings upon your exit, and if that doesn't make for a trustworthy promise, you don't know what does. ("He said good-bye for now.")

And so you hope. Hope is a slippery thing; sometimes, you have trouble grabbing on to it. The afterglow has receded throughout the years, but the stellar collision remains fresh in your mind, reminding you that to linger is to ultimately combust.  
You don't know when you'll fall into the sky, but hopefully, Jeffrey won't ask that you linger much longer.

Hopefully.

* * *

Within the week, you'll be buried six feet under the ground, your arms folded across your chest to hide the scars and your eyes closed to mask the pain. By then, you'll have entered the kitchen. By then, your impatience will have bested you.

As of now? You're still waiting.

("I thought you were dying.")  
("Not yet.")


End file.
